This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

  “Did you ever hang out together?”

  Elliot shrugged. “One time.” His voice was thick around his carrot-cake cupcake. “I hung out with the cast after that performance to recruit them for our audition.”

  More proof that Elliot would always be the superior director.

  “We were just chillin’ behind the school after they locked it up.”

  “What did you guys talk about?” I sounded like Mags whenever someone mentioned Nate.

  “I dunno,” said Elliot. “I told him about our audition, and then I think we just talked about how he doesn’t understand the abstract art on display next to the theater.”

  My heart softened. Of course he wouldn’t get art.

  “Mmm,” said Elliot. “It’s on his Instagram.” Elliot passed me his phone with Cole’s Instagram pulled up.

  There was a short video of Elliot standing under the lamplight with Cole near the school parking lot, the brick of the building and the backdoor entrance to the theater behind them. The caption read: Last hangout with the cast as the Beast!

  I pressed play. Instantly, Cole’s massive silhouette covered the grainy footage and he jerked and roared into it like the Beast does. I almost jumped. A few people laughed, including Elliot, and then Cole swung on his heel and walked towards the wall, shoving his hands in his pockets. He wore only a white undershirt, and his hair and beard were more unkempt for the role. Sweat still clung to his temple. He moved so familiarly, rocking side to side. “But yeah, I really don’t get art.” My ears tickled at his loud, throaty voice. “Picasso. You ever see somebody with an arm coming out of their rib cage? No? Okay.” He laughed.

  “Bruh,” Elliot started to say in the video, “you should—”

  The video cut off.

  On the ride home, I found the video again and saved it to my phone. Elliot was talking on his own phone to his girlfriend as he drove us south, so I put my earbuds in and flicked through Cole’s Instagram in silence. There was a photo of him with a yellow boa constrictor on his shoulder at the zoo. Save. A selfie of him lying in bed with a huge script and a comically overwhelmed expression. Save. A video of him taken on some punk friend’s camera-phone at an Imagine Dragons concert; it was outdoors, at night, with pulsing stage lights. The audio blasted and was choppy, but I think it was of Cole pushing his buddy away and cussing as his friend tried to film him taking a leak in the mud behind the port-a-johns. Definite save.

  Then I stopped scrolling. He’d posted a selfie on set of … my film. He smiled and had his arm around one of the tripods. Only one other person was in the photo, unaware, consulting a shot list.

  Me.

  Elliot hit a patch of rough road, and I bobbled. I squeezed the phone in my hand, swallowed, and stared.

  The caption read:

  Love this set.

  27

  Clear wrap crinkled as I held out the bouquet of roses in my hands. Elliot’s expression popped when he saw them. “Whaaaat?” he said.

  I smiled. “Every director needs roses on premiere day.”

  Elliot took them and shook his head. “Damn, girl. Good thing black don’t blush.”

  “You’d be hot if I touched you,” I said.

  “Eyyyy…” said Elliot.

  It was that Friday, and our last day of Video II. Mags smiled at us from her seat in the classroom, and Nate swiveled in his chair a few spots away, arms crossed. I rolled over to my desk and snapped my joystick into park. François darted under the table and kaplumped onto the floor. He yawned.

  Usually I’d be yawning by the time I got to class as well, but today was the last day until break, and since next semester was uncertain, we treated it even more like the last day, period. Premiere day for all of our projects, including Cole’s. I drummed the table.

  The door burst open, and Mr. Billings cut to the front of the classroom. He pushed air on me as he passed. “All right, all right, the big day. No excuses, no explanations, just whatever work you put on the screen.” He sighed and turned to face us. “I’m excited.”

  Elliot set the bouquet on his desk and fumbled to take out the hard drive with all our video files on it.

  “Wait,” said Billings. His expression furrowed. “Where’s KC?”

  I checked my phone clock. It was ten past—KC was never ten minutes late. Mags glanced at me as if to measure whether we were telling Billings about our concern or not. After KC’s increasingly dark vague-booking posts online, I wondered if maybe we should.

  “Did he text any of you?” said Billings. “I’ve told you guys since day one an unexcused absence means zero.”

  “He’s been MIA for like a week,” said Nate. Still swiveling.

  “MIA?” said Billings.

  “Missing in—”

  Billings scowled and held up a hand. “I know what it means, but where is he?”

  “In his house,” said Mags. “Probably. He won’t return messages.”

  I stayed still. And quiet. Billings hesitated.

  “Let’s hope he shows,” Billings finally said. He waved to us. “Elliot, Maeve, come on up and present.”

  By the time the lights were off and the thumbnails of our projects were on the big screen, it was twenty past. No KC. I returned to my desk in the back and turned my head to the door on the left. Even as I heard Mr. Billings click play, I didn’t look over. My hand curled tight around a bar of my wheelchair.

  The music video played first. Annoyingly saturated colors flashed over us and the young pop star twirled with quick cuts into newer and sparklier outfits. Decent editing, I guess. The song was a cross between chipmunks and Shakira. Mags rested her elbow on the desk and her fingertips pressed against her temple like this was giving her pain. She was tethered to the screen.

  Nate just continued to swivel in his chair. He even stretched his neck and stared at the ceiling a few times. It reminded me of how Cole rocks side to side on his feet. How he swings around weight with his hands in his pockets. Nate does it because he wants the world to know he doesn’t care. I think Cole has other reasons.

  Billings nodded a lot and made aggressively loud pen strokes on his clipboard, probably because he practically directed this entire video. When it ended, he stood and clapped. Mags brought a second hand to her temple.

  “Nice, guys. I like it. Thoughts? What were your reactions?”

  Only the sound of Nate’s chair squeaking.

  “Come on,” Billings prompted.

  “It was aight,” said Elliot at last. Billings nodded.

  “Exactly,” said Billings. “Not the best budget or ideal location, but it turned out pretty solid.”

  He definitely wasn’t looking for criticism.

  I shifted in my seat and inhaled as Billings prepared to play the next project. Ours.

  We opened with the stolen establishing shot of the Smithsonian and my trophy shot of the lockers. Then cut into the little Spotsylvania County Museum interior. Cole swaggered onto screen and joined his two costars next to the cannonball. The dialogue began.

  Immediately I spotted my own imperfections. The costar’s face was a little slow to react to Cole’s first line. I should have coached that and massaged them all into a looser place before shooting. The camera shook for a hundredth of a second when I must have nudged the tripod. Cole was standing a step too far apart from the others. It gave him a powerful, untouchable appearance. Maybe that sort of worked.

  But all the while I watched the film, everyone else was watching me.

  Elliot kept glancing at me, and Mags, I’m pretty sure, didn’t take her eyes off me. I sensed their gazes in my periphery but kept watching. They knew I had a lot in this film.

  So many times I imagined calling cut. I imagined Cole straightening and his eyes grabbing mine. His gaze would calculate and at the same time dismiss and I’d be distracted by those unusual dark lines under his eyes and the way his mouth always seemed a moment away from curving into a half smile but never did. In the back of my head I heard the sycamore lea
ves shake.

  Billings had a set face as he watched the screen, and when it ended, we all laughed at the final joke and applauded. Even Nate, demurely. Billings rose and had more critique to pass out this time, but I didn’t pay attention. I saw my flaws perfectly. I always do.

  When class ended, everyone rose and stretched, and I turned to the door again and frowned. Billings glanced at it too and made a mark on the attendance sheet. He pursed his lips in what seemed like genuine regret.

  KC never showed.

  I took a bite of my sandwich at lunch.

  There was a pause.

  About four pounds worth of coats piled over the back of my wheelchair because Mom said it was “the coldest day of the year” and that maybe I shouldn’t come to school at all. Tonight, it would be seventeen degrees, but at least tomorrow they said it would rocket up to nineteen. Since it was premiere day, though, Elliot, Mags, and I were going to celebrate later tonight with an evening premiere of the next Harry Potter movie and Slurpees from 7-Eleven. Elliot offered to pitch in for my handicapped cab ride home instead of making Mom or Dad drive out that late to pick me up when it was over.

  Students filled the cafeteria hall with blank chatter, but their faces were red and they wore boots and gloves. It was overcast beyond the tall windows and ice ticked against the glass as sleet fell. Even the school’s industrial heat vents struggled to ward back the chill.

  François lapped up water from a plastic takeout container on the ground. I shook his leash because he was drinking a lot, and I wasn’t interested in taking him outside three times during the movie tonight. He kept slurping. After class, Mags and Nate had left together, probably to make out in the closed-off stairwell next to the math department. Elliot was still talking to Mr. Billings about opportunities for film in the spring semester and vying for a late recommendation letter for UCLA. When he was finished, I wanted to talk to Billings myself. I wanted to ask him who I needed to charm in order to use the black box theater. Hopefully someone who liked Beauty and the Beast and would agree to let me produce it for the community again—but this time with the modern spin I was thinking about giving it.

  “All right, François,” I repeated. Tugged his leash. François stepped away and licked his lips. He looked up at me and wagged as water dribbled down his muzzle. “Let’s go see if Elliot’s done.”

  I made my way back to class. Elliot was still standing outside the room with Billings, talking with his hands, enthusiastic. The bouquet of roses was under his arm. I slowed to give them space.

  Today must have been test day for several classes, because foot traffic was heavy in the hallway—I never wanted to miss the final either. François shuffled to avoid oncoming students, and I veered to the right next to the black box theater entrance to be out of the way. Right now the only flier over the theater door was a holiday comedy skit ending this weekend. Then it’d be free …

  Maybe I could head to the principal’s office now. Maybe I could ask to produce the—

  Bzzt.

  Bzzt.

  Bzzt.

  Bzzt.

  I froze. When Mom texted me over at Mags’ house years ago that doctors decided there was no choice but to operate on my scoliosis, that came in four texts. When my cousin texted me that my grandmother was very ill, that came in four texts. Anytime anyone ever canceled a date or a meeting or said they couldn’t come to my party, that was never less than three.

  My blood was coolant, but I checked my phone.

  I stopped reading because the words wouldn’t focus with just a blink of my eyes anymore. Tears gushed from me and burned down my face. My heart felt like it was a jackhammer against my throat and I jerked in breath and shoved it out too hard. People were all around, students, and I couldn’t let them see this. They’d think I was in physical pain; they’d think the nurse had to be called; they’d never for a second understand. I had to go. I had to go.

  With the front of my chair, I pounded open the door to the black box theater and dove inside. The room’s empty, smooth, featureless black mouth and jagged camera-light teeth up above swallowed me. I doubled over my phone to stop the buzzing that kept coming in and clawed a hand over my eyes and cried. Not loudly. Just freely.

  Why? Why did the odds land on me? Nate was right: Cole was not a jerk. He just saw absolutely everything that I saw. I know what I am. He cannot hate it any more than I do. But I’m open to learning.

  The door opened behind me. I sniffled and straightened, punching my arm over my eyes to dry it, but it was like an open wound spurting blood, and no emotional will could act as my tourniquet. Please, don’t be Billings, don’t be Mags, don’t be Nate, don’t be—

  “Hey. Hey.”

  Elliot rushed to me. I swallowed, tried to blubber out words.

  “Shh, hey.” He wrapped me in his warm arms.

  “Cole,” was all I choked.

  “No,” Elliot whispered. “Just hold on to me.”

  So I did. I pressed my forehead against Elliot. I sobbed and mumbled. He bent over my chair and seemed not to let any open air touch me, only him. I shuddered into him and wept.

  Elliot rubbed me and just shook his head. I don’t know why.

  28

  Out in the hall, rapid footsteps squeaked. Elliot straightened, and I lifted my arm and let the running mucus from my face soak into my sleeve.

  “Maeve?” That was Mags’ muffled voice. “Has anyone seen Maeve?”

  “The wheelchair girl?” said someone.

  “Oh, fuck you,” said Mags, still frantic.

  “Wow,” the person replied. “Yet another minority cause I’m socially unaware of.”

  “Yeah, you’re really woke, homeboy.”

  Damn, she sounded mad.

  “Maeve?!”

  At that point I realized the buzzing coming in after Cole’s initial texts may not have been him again. I pulled out my phone and saw three messages from Mags. Before I could read them, Elliot dove for the door and opened it.

  “Mags?” Elliot called.

  “El!” Mags doubled back from down the hall to us. “Where’s Maeve?”

  “She’s in here. What’s up?”

  I rolled forward.

  “It’s KC,” Mags gasped. “It’s KC.”

  “What’s going on?” I pushed alongside Elliot, and then Mags met my eyes and shook her head.

  “Didn’t you see my messages?” Her voice was higher than normal. “Look. Right now.”

  I whipped open my phone’s lock again and pulled up her messages.

  Followed by a screenshot of KC’s Facebook post.

  It was a suicide note.

  * * *

  For forty bucks I bought a membership to a Whitepages website and unlocked Hector and Beth Douglas’ address. The site reported they had one child over eighteen living there as well: KC.

  He lived near school. Only a ten-minute walk past some town houses and into a wooded neighborhood. I followed Elliot and Mags behind Elliot’s blue pickup truck. He was going five miles per hour, and I was going full speed in my chair. François struggled to trot fast enough. Frigid wind bit the fresh tearstains on my face, and by this time, I was using my wrist to push the joystick; my fingers had become brittle in the cold.

  Elliot had already called the police. But God, I hoped we wouldn’t be too late.

  My heartbreak had to be put on hold. I collapsed it and shoved it into a little PO Box in my head and shifted adrenaline into gear. Without hesitation, I skipped my last class, Western civ, for this, although I probably would have anyway. And our Harry Potter movie was forgotten.

  I bumped over the seams of the sidewalk and watched the taillights of Elliot’s car. At last, he flipped on his blinker and turned left onto a long driveway. The mailbox at the driveway was tilted and its wooden post rotted.

  Ahead, finally, was KC’s house, isolated at the end of the long path in the trees. No police cars were parked in front yet. I cursed.

  The closer I got, the tighter the c
ramp in my chest. The house was a plain white, two-story ranch. Green mold stained its front. A screen door hung open over the front steps and cardboard pressed against the windows. But that’s not what made Elliot gently brake in alarm.

  Garbage littered the lawn, everything from takeout boxes to old vacuum cleaners. Next to the garage were beat-up sheds and spare tires. Piles of garden tools and tarp and dirt rose like giant anthills. A musty scent ground against the fresh wet smell of trees. Somewhere in their neighbor’s wire-fenced backyard, a mastiff was chained to a post and barking like mad at François.

  Only one window on the house was clear and clean—the top left. A decal of our school logo was in the corner. That must have been KC’s room.

  Elliot parked, and a second later the car doors popped open. Elliot slammed his shut and spun to take this in. Mags cursed and didn’t even bother to shut her door all the way, drifting forward with an open mouth. I commanded François to jump into the flatbed part of the pickup, and he lay down on the tarp in the corner, staring at me with pointed concern. I didn’t want him near the front door in case another mastiff like that was inside.

  Slowly, I wheeled onto the spongy grass lawn and joined Mags as we walked up to the front door. We said nothing. We only gazed at this jungle of waste.

  I stopped at KC’s front step. My breath puffed in the freezing air as I watched Elliot scale the stair and knock on the door. Mags was staring at the cockroach that scurried along the welcome mat.

  Several moments passed. I glanced at the sun sagging low on the horizon, pulling the heavy clouds down with it like a stage curtain. Soon it would be gone.

  The front latch creaked, and Elliot stepped back as the door opened.

  A woman with thick, round glasses that enlarged her eyes and short, flyaway brown hair opened the door. She wore a pink cooking apron with ducks on it. Her makeup was normal, her fingernails evenly trimmed. Her black pants were from Anne Taylor.